


Five Centuries and Eight Decades

by vulpineTrickster



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Angst, F/M, Historical Inaccuracy, Sadness, Slight OOC
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-12
Updated: 2012-10-12
Packaged: 2017-11-16 03:38:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,315
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/535057
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vulpineTrickster/pseuds/vulpineTrickster
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>His healer. His protector. His best friend. His love. His angel.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Five Centuries and Eight Decades

**Author's Note:**

> I posted this on Fanfiction.net a year ago on the five-hundred and eightieth anniversary of Jeanne d'Arc's death, and I decided to submit it here :) I apologize if any characters are a little OOC, and all translations are from an online translator. 
> 
> ENJOY! :D
> 
> Disclaimer: I do not own the characters used here. They belong to Himaruya Hidekaz.
> 
> **_DO NOT COPY OR DUPLICATE WITHOUT MY PERMISSION!!!!!_ **
> 
> * * *

"I am not afraid! I was born to do this!"

"Born to do what, Mademoiselle?"

"To liberate my beloved country from the English. God has spoken to me and this is His will. He wishes for me to lead my fellow countrymen to freedom!"

"That is…quite a declaration. Might I ask you for your name?"

"It is Jeanne. Jeanne d'Arc."

 

 

 

 

France politely thanks the solider who points out what he seeks among the encampment and hurriedly walks toward the small tent. Upon pulling back the flap, he sees his dear Jeanne sitting up on her cot, hunched over several maps with her eyes absorbing each detail crudely sketched on the wrinkled parchment. He notes that she shed her armor for the evening and now dons a loose white tunic and brown breeches. Despite being clothed, the Frenchman can tell her small body is heavily bandaged. It makes his heart break at the idea of a girl such as herself collecting battle scars like colorful posies.

"Jeanne?"

The young blonde jumps and turns her eyes to the royally-dressed nation. "Francis! W-What are you doing here?"

"I need to have a reason to visit mon bel ange?" he lightly teases, watching her become flustered.

As she stands to greet her dear friend properly, Jeanne hisses back a wince and clutches her side. France is at her side in an instant, worry and concern etching his features. He places a gentle hand over the spot she holds and is relieved when he feels no blood or open wounds.

"Êtes-vous bien? Avez-vous besoin du médecin?" he asks just to be safe.

She shakes her head. "Non…I'm fine. I just stood up too fast…"

"Etes-vous sûr? I can go see if—"

"Francis! I…am…fine. Please, stop worrying about me so much."

The nation frowns slightly at her, who smiles back at him in response. France sighs, chuckling under his breath.

"Alright. If mon ange says she is fine, then I believe her."

Jeanne pouts. "Why must you always call me that?"

"Because you are an angel, mon chère. You are guiding France to freedom," he softly says while brushing a blonde curl from her face.

A faint pink tinge lights up Jeanne's cheeks before she turns away from the Frenchman. "I should r-return to my maps and you should return h-home, Francis."

"Very well, Charles must be wondering where I am anyway. Adieu, mon bel ange."

France gentlemanly kneels down on one knee, takes his savior's left hand in his gloved right, and places a light kiss upon her delicate and battle-worn fingers.

 

 

 

 

France can see the plumes of dark smoke rise higher above the rooftops as he runs through the masses that crowded the streets of Rouen. The air turns stagnant and toxic the closer he runs to the town square but he does not falter. He can hear the victorious cries and pained shouts of the populace emanating from the epicenter. The blond-haired nation pushes and claws his way toward the flaming pillar that held Jeanne.

_I have to save her! Jeanne!_

But he is too late. They burned his angel. The murderous flames begin to die down once their meal is finished. Amongst the charred wood and rope lay the burned corpse of Jeanne d'Arc, the Maid of Orléans. Sun-streaked curls are an ashen gray. Creamy white skin now blackened and cracked. Sky blue eyes are now bloody and melted within the sockets. Bone and muscle exposed for all to see. Those lips…those cute pink lips…are now two shriveled pieces of flesh.

France falls to his knees in despair and heartbreak with heavy globs of tears staining his cheeks. His eyes are frozen open and refuse to turn away from the horrific scene.

_Jeanne…Jeanne…mon bel ange…est morte._

"God forgive us. We have burned a saint," someone mutters from the dispersing crowd.

 

 

 

 

Five hundred and eighty years.

That is how much time passed since her death and that is how long France has been paying respects for her. He would cancel meetings with his boss and disconnect himself from the other nations to wallow in melancholy and wine. England knows full well not to bother the Frenchman during this time; the same goes for Prussia and Spain, who are practically his closest friends. Those three know how emotional the blond nation can get and they remember that one time he blew off an important World Conference when it was scheduled on that day.

The thirtieth of May is a dark memory for France. For on this day, he is not a personified nation…he is just another human grieving over the loss of a loved one.

The streets of Paris are vacant of people due to the violent downpour gracing their presence since the early morning. Heavy raindrops pound against metal and stone when they fall from their cloud mother. Stray cats and dogs take shelter in doorways and old boxes. Even the birds, those feather angels, stay huddle in their nests. He finds it ironic that it was raining today.

It is as if God is crying along with him.

France solemnly walks down the pavement, umbrella in hand and a bouquet of white roses nestled in his free arm, as he heads in the direction of the Seine. In contrast to his colorful designer clothing, he wears a white button-down dress shirt, black slacks and boots, and a long dark high-collar trench coat. His blond hair is slicked and pulled back at the nape of his neck by a black ribbon. Unlike his cheery and affectionate self, France's expression is serious and pained.

Through the misty atmosphere, he spots the vast river a few feet away. How many times has he thought about jumping into those watery depths within the days following her execution? There were too many to count. England took it upon himself to watch over the other blond until all thoughts of drowning had been banished from his rival's mind; even though it is impossible for nations to die by human means, it does not stop them from trying.

The waterfront, as he predicted, is uninhabited of his citizens; some liked to walk along the length of the river during rainstorms for peaceful purposes but not today. France stops in front of the iron fence and jumps over it with ease. Tiny water beads splatter his face but he ignores them. The blond nation carefully slides down the slick embankment, making sure that he does not trip and tumble into the murky liquid. Adjusting the umbrella so it leans against his shoulder, France cradles the white roses in both arms and bows his head in silent prayer.

_Mon ange. I pray that you are well in Heaven and kindly looking over your homeland. I am sorry that I could not save you in time._

A lone tear slides down his cheek with his lips quivering.

_I should have done more to get you back. I should have done something than having to watch you burn!_

The dark clouds loudly rumble above him while the rain becomes heavier.

_Jeanne…I wish could have told you the truth about me. You had suspicions and I denied them. If I did, would you have stayed when I told you not to go to battle?_

The sky grows silent. The rain gradually begins to lighten.

_Mon bel ange…mon saint précieux. I am sorry._

France tosses aside his umbrella and kneels to the ground, not caring about the mud staining his slacks or the soft rain dotting his hair and face. He brings the flower bouquet to his nose and fondly inhales the sweet fragrance.

_Les roses blanches. They suit you well._

With a sad smile, France gently places the roses in the water and watches them drift along the lapping waves.

_Je t'aime, Jeanne d'Arc, and thank you._

**Author's Note:**

> Translations  
> \- Ma bel ange: My beautiful angel  
> \- Êtes-vous bien? Avez-vous besoin du médecin?: Are you well? Do you need a doctor?  
> \- Etes-vous sûr?: Are you sure?  
> \- Ma ange est morte: My angel is dead  
> \- Ma saint précieux: My precious saint  
> \- Les roses blanches: White roses  
> \- Je t'aime: I love you
> 
> Language of Flowers  
> \- white roses: eternal love, innocence, wistfulness, virtue, purity, secrecy, reverence and humility


End file.
